


Falling

by artsyleo



Category: EastEnders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Angst and Feels, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, Kid Fic, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Slow Burn, Song Lyrics, Suicidal Thoughts, Teen Angst, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:15:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25577926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artsyleo/pseuds/artsyleo
Summary: Life isn't perfect. Callum knows that, there's no doubt about it. He wonders, though - more than that, he's longing for something, because there must be more than this. He's been longing all his life, until the boy with the pretty blue eyes.yes, this is based on a harry styles song.(DISCONTINUED)
Relationships: Callum "Halfway" Highway/Ben Mitchell
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	Falling

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warning - slight suicidal ideation. there's no direct reference to suicide, but sort of subtle suicidal thoughts. also, references to child abuse.

Life isn’t perfect. No matter who you are, where you come from, where you live, life is a messy maze of good days and bad days. Days where it feels like nothing on the Earth could be better than what you’re doing, and days where it feels like only the stars could understand you. At least, that’s what it feels like to Callum. His life is built up as a messy combination of these days- his challenge Is figuring out how to navigate them. That’s why he writes- it’s why, two years ago, he’d saved up all his money, everything he’d received for birthdays and Christmases, or days when the old woman down the street he mowed the lawn for was feeling particularly generous, and had bought the old guitar in the charity shop down in Camden. He’d ridden all the way there on his own, on his little blue bike (it must’ve been too small for him now, but they didn’t have enough money for a new one, and anyway, it wasn’t exactly an essential), heart thrumming in his ears in excitement. He’d taken his jar of notes to the counter, a nervous grin on his face, and asked the bored-looking man to help him get the guitar down. It was an old looking mahogany brown one, with brassy inlays on the fretboard and silver-tinted strings. A woven red-and-gold strap hung from the neck, and connected to the bottom of the body.

“It’s a discontinued fender,” the man had said, holding the guitar in front of Callum, so that he could touch it. Callum didn’t exactly know what he’d said, but he nodded anyway.

“I’d like it, please.”

He’d ridden all the way home with it on his back, careful around the corners so that he didn’t fall.

He didn’t say anything to anyone when he arrived home, just took it straight up to his little bedroom. He’d learnt a long time ago that excitement was best kept to yourself. That was the first night he’d sat out on the flat roof until sunrise, stubby fingers stretching across the strings until there were indents on each ne. When he hauled himself back into bed that night, there was a pulsing ache in each one, but it didn’t stop the smile that stuck on his face until he fell asleep.

He was twelve at the time, too young to really understand how life worked, or how it would work for him. The roof became like a routine, though- every time his dad said something, or the sounds of shouts just wouldn’t get out of his head, he’d play. There was a day when he was fifteen-he’d played until his fingers bled, then cried under the light of the stars. That was the first time he’d sat at the edge of the roof. He played until the sun came up the next morning, until he physically couldn’t any more. Playing- it was like his escape, this little universe that was just his alone. It was his constant, in a life that seemed determined to move and change around him every day. That was the night he’d started writing, dug out an old school workbook and put chords to words, sung them like a secret between him and the rising sun. He hadn’t told anyone about that night, or the fact that it happened again, and again after that, until most nights he’d spend an hour or two at least sat out on the roof, playing into the wind. 

So, yeah. There’s nothing about Callum’s life that’s perfect, but he supposes that’s normal. Just like it’s normal to not know who you are, to want to be able to change yourself, to want to be enough, for once.

Right?

He tries not to ask himself that too often. Screw normal- this is his life. It’s far from perfect, but it’s his.

-

The sound of the wind rustling through the leaves of the tree above him fills Callum’s ears, as well as the laughter of the children from the park that’s just on the other side of the field. The sun’s lowering steadily in the sky, casting afternoon shadows over most of the field, and leaving the perfect spot for Callum to sit under. It’s not often that it’s like this- he does live in Britain after all, and today is the one day of rest bite after the downpours of the last few weeks. That’s why he’s been sat in the same spot all day- why he’d pulled himself out of bed at 4am that morning just so that he could watch as the sun rose on the horizon, casting new light over the trees. He’d piled himself out of the house armed with just his guitar and notebook, a flask of tea and a sandwich, and waked the half a mile to the park. He’s been watching people come and go for hours, mind scrambling to grasp to any little idea he’d had. Maybe it’s been the miserable weather, or maybe it’s the fact that it’s difficult to write things with the incessant noise of people shouting in the background, mixed with that constant fear of _he’s going to find out_ -

Either way, he’s desperate to get something down on paper, but his mind’s a barren wasteland. Until- _he’s_ there.

He appears in the park just after Callum’s eaten his lunch, and the sun’s peaked in the sky. A short boy, with brown unruly hair and a smirk that Callum thinks you could probably spot from a mile away. Not that he has to, because the boy and his friends end up sitting just away from his tree. The boy spares a glance over to Callum, and- _shit._ Callum can somehow see – maybe it’s fate, he thinks foolishly – that the boy’s eyes are the bluest Callum thinks he’s ever seen in his life. They’re like the colour of the sky above just after the sun’s set on a clear day- deep blue and beautiful. They look to him like nights when Callum sits on the slab of flat roof that’s just outside his bedroom window, staring up at that endless sky and wishing to whoever, he doesn’t even know, to leave this place, like nights where he sits out there contemplating his own life, whispering his secrets to the wind and hoping that his mother can hear them, wherever she is now. It’s nights like those where he’ll et this feeling in his chest, this warmth that suddenly overcomes him like a warm hug, and he thinks that maybe he’s not quite as alone as he feels. The boy’s eyes look like those nights now, and there’s that same feeling of warmth in his chest, same feeling of _right_ that surges through him when their eyes meet. The boy shoots him a little smirk, then turns away, saying something to the girl that’s sat next to him.

 _I hope that’s not his girlfriend,_ his mind supplies without his own permission, and he scolds himself when he realises. So what if she is? It’s not as if Callum’s going to do anything. It’s not as if the other boy would even like him, _even if he did feel that way,_ because Callum’s six feet of gangly limbs and too-big ears, and he’s not even that clever to make up for it. He has one or two friends that seem to like him well enough, but they don’t know him, not really, not the way he strangely wants that boy to know him. They don’t know that he spends half his life feeling anxious and tired, or about his dad, or about the two notebooks that he’s filled with broken lyrics that he’s written and hidden under his mattress when the window ledge feels too close for comfort. They don’t know about the songs that he’s written and recorded on his roof as the sun rises, because they’ll never see the light of day, because it’s a stupid dream anyway.

Out of nowhere though, he wants this boy, with the beautiful eyes to know everything about him. He wants to trust him with things he’s never told anyone, things that he thought he’d never let himself say out loud. That boy and his blue eyes- they give him _hope._

It’s then that he realises he’s probably been staring for a little too long, because he hears a laugh from where the boy is. He’s not looking at Callum any more, but the girl next to him is. He averts his eyes quickly, and tries to ignore the way that he can feel his cheeks blush at the idea of being caught out. Instead, he grabs the notebook that’s been lying unused next to him, and he just- _writes._

It’s been maybe an hour, and he’s finally started to get some semblance of something written on the page, when someone comes up and taps on his shoulder. He flinches as the contact brings him back to reality. He turns quickly to see who’s appeared behind him, instinctively throwing his book shut and praying _not him, not him, not him-_

It’s not him. It’s the boy, with the blue eyes, and the shaggy brown hair that’s just the right side of unruly, and the childish smirk that seems to just fit his face. 

“Hey,” the boy says, and oh fuck, his _voice._ “What you writing?”

He throws a quick glance over to the boy’s friends behind him, and the girl is still looking over at him, although she turns away quickly when their eyes catch.

“Hey,” he says in response, when he pulls his eyes back to the boy. “Uh, n-nothing.”

Great, Callum. Well done.

“you’ve been writing in that thing like a madman for the past hour, it’s not nothing,” the boy says, as he seats himself just next to him.

_I’ve been writing a song about you, because I can’t get the thought of your eyes out of my head and I just want to know you so bad._

“Just- homework,” he says, and it’s just about the lamest excuse he could come up with, and he keeps seeing the way the girl from before keeps throwing her eyes back to the two of them. “You on a dare or something?”

The boy lets out a little laugh. “Okay, you caught me, but I do actually want to know what you’ve been writing. You a singer or what?”

Callum throws his glance back to the battered, second-hand guitar that’s pirched against the tree next to him, and curses himself for not remembering that it’s there, because seriously, the boy was never going to believe the homework excuse.

“Um- kind of,” is the best he can come up with. “I’m crap though,” he adds almost automatically, because that’s what his dad’s drilled into him.

_You’re crap at that, why do you even do it?_

_Singing’s for girls. You want to be a pansy?_

_You sound shit, kid._

The boy’s laugh tears him away from his memories before he can go too deep. “You can’t be that bad. Sing something for me.”

_Shit._

There’s really no getting out of this one. The boy doesn’t exactly look like the kind of person that’s going to back down easily, and it’s not like he can just tell him that he can’t play, because what idiot brings a guitar to a park when they can’t even play it? He’s cornered, and the thing is- there’s something in him that wants to, and that’s the most dangerous part of it. Because he’ll only tell Callum that he’s shit, r laugh at him, because that’s what he deserves, really. It all seems like some cruel trick, payback for having used the unwitting boy as his muse. For a minute he’s prepared to just pick up all his stuff and leave, because he could do that (even though he wants to sit and talk to this boy forever) but then he lays a hand on the neck of his guitar and the boy laughs and claps a little excitedly, and _fuck._ Callum thinks he’s probably a little drunk but it doesn’t even bother him because he looks cute when he does that (wait, where did _that_ thought come from?) and so he doesn’t have the willpower to stop himself. He puts the guitar across his lap and fiddles with the tuning for a minute even though he already knows it’s perfectly in tune, mostly to give himself time because there are nerves pulsing through his veins now, but strangely they’re not accompanied by the usual overwhelming thrum of anxiety. He lays his fingers across the strings and plays the first thing that comes to mind-

_You said you cared_

_And you missed me too_

_I’m well aware_

_I write too many songs about you_

_What am I now?_

_What am I now?_

_What if I’m someone I don’t want around?_

_I’m falling again_

_I’m falling again_

_I’m falling…_

When he’s finished he takes a breath, realising that his eyes had fallen closed, as they always do when he plays. There’s silence for a minute and so he forces his eyes open, hoping that the boy’s not just run off, _because he didn’t even get his name._ When he looks around again, he sees that he’s still not alone. The boy’s still sat there, with a look on his face that he can’t work out. It makes him panic, because really he never should have done this.

“See,” he says, hoping that the joking tone to his voice covers up the panic and urt that’s playing havoc in his body right now. “Told you I’m crap.”

He turns to start putting the guitar back into it’s case when a hand on his arm stops him. He flinches a little, but stops when he realises that it’s the boy’s hand.

“Wait,” he says. “Your voice- it’s _beautiful.”_

The compliment definitely shakes him, because no one’s ever called any part of him _beautiful,_ and the fact that it’s the boy that says it starts a fire in his chest that he doesn’t think he ever wants to burn out.

“R-really?” he says hesitantly, because surely there must be some punchline.

Instead Ben just nods earnestly. “Really. I’m, uh, I’m Ben, by the way.”

 _Ben._ His name races around Callum’s head a mile a minute.

“Callum,” he replies, and takes Ben’s outstretched hand. It’s warm and soft in his own, and he never wants to let go. He doesn’t, for a minute, and he catches onto Ben’s eyes again instead, and _fuck,_ he’s lost. There’s so much more in them up close- now, he can see the little swirls of a lighter colour that thread through them, taking him racing back to that image of the night sky. There are literal stars in Ben’s eyes, little comet trails captured in their beauty, and maybe he shouldn’t be waxing poetic about a stranger’s eyes in his head but he just can’t stop himself, because he wants to stare into those eyes forever, wants those eyes to know him, truly. Now that they’re close up, too, there’s so much more emotion he can see in them. He doesn’t know quite what yet, but he _wants_ to so badly. There’s something in his mind, and maybe it’s his dad’s voice, that’s shouting at him that this is wrong, it’s something he shouldn’t think, shouldn’t be, but he _is._ He’s seventeen now, eighteen in a couple of weeks, and he’s finally starting to understand that this isn’t something he can change about himself, no matter how much he hates it, or his father tells him he should hate it. But losing the will to change himself and allowing himself things like this are two different things. He’s not quite figured out the latter yet, but with Ben-

He pulls his hand away quickly when he realises he’s probably been staring for too long. He can feel the tell-tale warming of his cheeks, but he’s somewhat satisfied when the same colour appears on Ben’s cheeks. There’s a moment where they’re just looking at each other and it feels like anything coloured happen-

“Ben! You coming or what?”

The girl from earlier is staring at the two of them, a glass bottle clutched in her hand. Ben shakes his head a little when she calls, as if trying to shake thoughts from his head, then begins to stand.

“Hey, uh, Callum,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets in what could be a nervous gesture if it wasn’t accompanied by a smirk on his face. “Maybe I’ll see you around, yeah?”

All Callum can do is nod and smile a little when Ben turns to run back to his friends. He keeps looking, and their eyes catch once more when Ben’s walking away. He looks back around himself to gather his things because his dad will want him home soon, and his eyes catch on little slip of paper that’s resting on top of his notebook. He picks it up with shaking hands, and reads a phone number that’s scrawled across it with a little note that just reads _call me._

He opens the book and folds it carefully into the page that holds the song he was writing earlier, a little smile creeping onto his face despite himself. Before he closes the book though, he takes his pen and scrawls a title onto the page-

_Ben’s song._

**Author's Note:**

> so uh, yeah. this is a 3-part fic, and I do have all three written so I'll try not to keep you waiting too long. I just got addicted to this song then decided I had to write a callum singer fic about it. It's been sat in my drafts for weeks now so I decided to bite the bullet and post it :) hope you enjoy, and comments/kudos mean the world <3  
> leo x (tumblr: artsy-highway)


End file.
